


Good Boy

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: For the prompt, "Alistair being consensually wrecked by men as a submissive/bottom."
This prompt just will not leave me alone.
I feel like this fic should be rated T, and yet, every time I try to pick that, it feels wrong, too. So...despite the prompt, not actually all that smutty.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/gifts).



On his knees, head hanging, Alistair strains involuntarily against the ropes that bind his arms behind his back even as he clutches harder at the bell in his hand. He doesn't want the ropes to give, but his balance is almost gone as he gasps for breath and prays to the Maker for control. Those are the only two things he needs right now: enough air that he doesn't pass out, and enough control that he doesn't disappoint Bull.

If he had to pick one, he'd give up the air first.

A hand grips the back of his neck, giving him an anchor point for his control, and he relaxes into the touch. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know it's Bull's hand, to recognize the shortened fingers and the firm touch that says, "I'm here."

His hair is too short for anyone to make a fist in it, but Bull runs his hand through it anyway, trapping the strands between his fingers to tug gently. "Need a break?" he asks quietly.

Alistair almost shakes his head, though his mouth is painfully dry and he knows the world would be spinning if he opened his eyes. _Don't stop_ whispers through his head, a plea he can't voice aloud. Just as well. He may not _want_ to need a break, but he does.

He nods, his neck moving a little more loosely than normal, and it takes actual effort to pull his head back upright.

"All right," Bull says, tugging on his hair again. It isn't hard enough to hurt, just a small sting that helps him keep his balance in more ways than one.

"Here," someone says. A quiet voice. Not Bull.

Alistair tries to dredge up names and faces, to remember who else is in the room with them, and it's almost impossible, though he was laughing with them earlier tonight. The effort to drag himself back to the world is painful, and before he manages it, Bull tugs his hair a third time, painfully hard.

"Stop," Bull says. The word is almost a whisper, gravelly and low, and Alistair feels it pushing him down, away from the world.

He lets it happen.

Some indefinite amount of time later, Bull murmurs, "Drink."

There's a cup at his lips, though it can't be Bull holding it, not with the way his hand cradles the back of Alistair's head. Whoever's holding it, they're careful, tilting the cup gently so the water trickles into his mouth slowly enough not to choke him. Cold water, barely warmer than the snow outside, but it soothes heat in his lips and throat that he wasn't aware of until they were gone.

"More?" Bull asks when the cup is empty, and Alistair shakes his head. Bull's fingers comb through his hair, rubbing firm circles against his scalp, and Alistair leans against his leg, rubbing his face against the coarse fabric of his trousers.

Someone else's fingers brush over his fist, encouraging him to open the hand gripping the bell. Alistair makes a noise of protest and clenches his fist tighter, but he relaxes when Bull says, "Shhh. Let him have it."

He lets the bell be taken from him, hearing the soft click as it's set on the floor. Strong fingers wrap around his hand and massage the marks in his palm where the edges of the bell dug in to his skin, then his other hand is opened and the bell set gently in the curve of his fingers. No hand curls his fist closed again, forcing him to grip the metal.

It's his choice, but it's an easy one. He makes a tight fist, the bell safely inside.

"He's very good," someone says to Bull, and the words are more important than the water. He's good, he's being good, he's being good for Bull, and so Bull looks good.

"He is," Bull agrees, and those words are more important than air.


End file.
